Walk on Earth a Stranger (Gold Seer Trilogy) by Rae Carson

Author:Rae Carson [Carson, Rae]
Language: eng
Format: azw3
Publisher: HarperCollins
Published: 2015-09-22T04:00:00+00:00

Chapter Nineteen

The country north of the Kansas River is wide and flat and treeless. Stumps are scattered here and there, left over from earlier wagon trains. The prairie will be abundant with grass again in another month or two, but huge swaths of trail are grazed out and fouled with manure. The good watering places are much the same—churned up and dirtied with the waste of the folks ahead of us. We often veer far from the path to make camp.

At least there’s less mud. The rain is tapering off, and the air is pleasantly warm.

One morning, after I rise early and venture far to take care of my necessities, I return to find Major Craven with a scowl on his face. “There’s no need for you to go off. We’re getting to Indian country, and you can never tell what those savages will do.”

If he forbids me to wander off, I’ll be in a heap of trouble. “Maybe the Indians just want to trade,” I say, trying not to sound quarrelsome. I have vague memories of Daddy trading with the Cherokee, before the government chased them out of Georgia.

“Possibly, possibly,” he says. “Still, be careful. Take a dog with you.”

“I will, sir. Thank you, sir.” I’m grinning ear to ear. I should have realized he wouldn’t forbid me to go off on my own occasionally; I’m a boy now.

Coney is delighted to follow me the next time. I give him lots of belly rubs, something he’s always begging of Mr. Joyner but never gets. He and Peony have always been easy with each other, but before long, they’re fast friends; he walks beside her every day and curls up at her feet at night.

I make good on my word to Mr. Robichaud and take some time each day to ride alongside their wagon. It’s smaller and lighter than any of the others, and packed so neatly that the twins have room to sit in the back and play when the trail is smooth enough for it. They are good-natured children who get along well, often referring to each other as “frère,” which their mother immediately corrects to “brother.”

“We are going to live in America, we must learn to speak a little of American,” she says.

“A little American,” I say, because she has asked me to correct her. Her husband sits on the bench, eyes ahead, acting as if he doesn’t overhear. “And you speak it very well,” I add.

“Mrs. Lowrey says I speak it good,” she says.

“You can say it that way. ‘Speak it good.’ But it’s better to say ‘Speak it well.’”

“I speak it very well,” she intones, then she smiles in triumph. Her English is passing fair, much better than she seems to think. She’s a young woman, younger even than Mrs. Joyner, with a cheerful and chatty disposition, dancing brown eyes, and a dusting of freckles. She often stays up late, talking and singing around the campfire, and I suspect this makes her learning go faster.

The Robichauds have matching gold wedding bands—probably the most precious things they own.

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